


going under

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Attempt to steal Martin from Beholding, Blood and Gore, Corruption, Dissociation, Do Not Archive, Extremely poor coping mechanisms in the aftermath of rape, Kink Meme, M/M, Mental Corruption, Mindbreak, Other, Parasites, Prompt Fill, Protective Jon, Rape Recovery, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Somewhat Broken Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 22:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15828216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The Corruption tries to take Martin as recompense for the death of Jane Prentiss.





	going under

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this prompt: https://rusty-kink.dreamwidth.org/1380.html?thread=5220#cmt5220

            He’s gotten careless. Maybe he’s always been careless. Maybe his concern for Jon and his desperation to at least do his job well has made him reckless. Or maybe it’s just bad luck.

            They crawl across him—he’s got his mouth shut, because the thought of one of them in his mouth is too much. Above him, the subject of the statement Jon asked him offhandedly to check out is laughing gently. “We’re not just a mindless horde,” it says happily. “Did you expect Jane Prentiss again? We are not just _crawling creatures of dirt_ , Archivist’s beloved.”

            _I’m not_ , Martin wants to say miserably, and, _he barely even looks at me_ , and, _I’m not good enough_ , the thoughts rising roaring in his ears as he struggles against the restraints binding him to the bed.

            “We are corruption,” the figure murmurs, hot breath on Martin’s ear, fingers gently caressing the lobe. “We are filth and degradation, and the Archivist saw fit to kill one of ours, so we will _take_ one of his.”

            Martin shakes his head violently side to side, feeling his stomach twisting with nausea. He still doesn’t open his mouth. There’s a sob caught in there, he can tell. Something that could be a human hand if it weren’t for the strange twisting and bulging closes around his cock. _Things_ he doesn’t want to think about twine around his legs and his arms.

            _Jon_ , he thinks. _Jon, oh G-d, Jon, please, please._

            “You’re going to enjoy this,” the thing above him croons. “It’s going to be the best you’ve ever had, and you’re going to forget all about your watching lover.”

            “No,” Martin says, forgetting he meant to keep his mouth shut. “No, _please_ , don’t— _please—”_

            “Thank you,” the creature says, and Martin feels something slick and slimy and fetid pressed into his mouth, and he chokes. Something foul and rank trickles down the back of his throat. The hand on his dick moves, and something curls inside him, and he’s sobbing and crying. Then there’s pain, all along his body, the drilling pain of a thousand tiny bodies forcing entry, and now he’s screaming.

            “Shhhh,” says the writhing shadow that he can barely see in the dim light. “Shhhh, shhhhh, quiet. You enjoy this.” It strokes gentle across his cheek and twists inside him. Inside him everywhere.

            “No,” someone sobs. “No, please, no, no.” Martin wonders who it is. He’s burning, desperate, lapping eagerly at the slick appendage in his mouth, hitching his hips up. More, he wants more. He wants it further inside and his legs twitch as he strains to widen them, to give it further access. He’s rocking into slick, sweet warmth that moves around him, pulsing and twitching. The pain across his limbs and torso heightens the beautiful sensation of being taken, used, of the exquisite pleasure singing through him. _Can you hear it_? someone murmurs, and someone else is screaming, and it’s all so muddy and far away. He just wants to follow the pleasure.

            It draws him and on and on until there’s nothing left inside him but wriggling, writhing, moaning pleasure, until he’s cracked open and begging. The only thing that mars it is the fact that someone, very far away, is crying and crying and begging someone else to stop.

~

            It’s late. Jon’s not sure how late, but _very_ late. He can’t sleep. Where the hell is Martin? This shouldn’t have been a difficult assignment. Should it? He’s texted Martin three times and called him twice with no response. Jon is slumping forward sleepily when he hears shuffling footsteps at the door.

            “Martin, is that—dear god.”

            Martin’s face is vacant and expressionless. His clothes are shredded, barely even a concession to modesty, and there are streaks of red on them. He blinks slowly from behind his glasses, looks up, and sees Jon. “Oh,” he says vacantly. “Um. The subject’s, um. Corrupted.” Then he sways sideways and nearly falls.

            “ _Martin_.” Jon’s across the room to him in an instant.

            “It felt wonderful,” Martin says in a slow, liquid voice, and he smiles with empty eyes. He smells of rot and filth. When Jon rolls up what’s left of his sleeve, he finds bloody puncture wounds.

            “I’m going to call an ambulance,” he says roughly, and Martin flinches.

            “No, no—please,” he whispers. “I’ll be fine. I’m fine.” And then a faint sparkle of _something_ beyond that awful, awful emptiness. “Don’t leave me.”

            There’s a moment of immense pressure, when every fiber of Jon’s being tells him to call the ambulance, push Martin out the door of the Archives, leave him, leave him, _leave him_ —marked, ruined, useless—and it takes every piece of himself that Jon can still hold onto to push _back_. And he’s on the ground, they’re both on the ground, and he’s holding Martin’s elbows. “I won’t leave you,” he tells Martin. “I won’t.”

            “You should,” Martin whispers. “I can still hear it.”

            “Come on,” Jon says, and he leads Martin to the showers deep in the Archives. Too deep for anything other than the Eye to penetrate here.

            At first, Martin just stands like a doll as Jon undresses him, shuddering as he removes the filthy rags clinging to Martin’s skin. After the first time he has to peel off part of a t-shirt that is stuck to an injury, he goes and finds a first-aid kit, carefully soaking all of the injuries in disinfectant.

            After he’s done that, he turns on the shower, then frowns. Martin’s in no condition to bathe himself, and Jon’s shirt and trousers are marked and speckled with dark fluid as well. With a muttered curse, he goes out and phones Georgie, apologizes briefly for waking her, and asks her to bring a couple of changes of clothes to the Archives. Then he goes back into the bathroom and finds that Martin is throwing up into the toilet, making wretched, pained sounds. Jon has no idea what to do, so he does what his grandmother used to do when he had stomach flu when he was tiny, and rubs strong circles across the unblemished parts of Martin’s back. When he’s finished vomiting, Jon gets him a glass of water and tells him to drink it.

            Martin does, drinking all of it in one long, steady gulp, turns back to the toilet, and throws up again. At least this time what he’s throwing up isn’t black. He stays there, bent over the toilet, for a long time, and Jon gradually takes his hand away and hovers awkwardly in the background. “Do you—do you need something else?” he asks finally, and Martin bursts into tears.

            “I wanted it,” he sobs. “I wanted it. It made me want it.”

            When Jon realizes what he means, when he looks down to see the streaks of red along the insides of Martin’s thighs, he nearly throws up as well. “Oh, god,” he says, helplessly. “Martin. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

            “I’m trash,” Martin sobs. “I’m—I’m marked. I’m corrupted. I’m not…I’m not the Archive’s anymore. It—it wanted—it said it was guh-going to take me because you killed Jane.”

            “Please,” Jon finds himself begging. “You’re not—don’t say that. Martin. I should never have asked you to go.”

            “It took me,” Martin whispers. “What if I’m infected? What if I’m—”

            “You’re not,” Jon says sharply. “The Archives wouldn’t have let me bring you in here at all if you were. I couldn’t have—I couldn’t have overruled them.” His voice has a strange ring of truth to it. “Why don’t you take a shower?” he tries. “Get yourself clean.”

            “I _wanted_ it,” Martin says desolately.

            “No, you didn’t. It—forced you, it—”

            Martin shakes his head. “I wanted it,” he says dully. “I’m broken, I’m filthy, I’m…”

            “You’re _not_!” Jon slams his hand against the bathroom wall, hard enough to hurt. “You’re not,” he says, quieter. “You never will be. You are the best of all of us here, Martin, and it tried to take you away, and I swear I will _kill_ it, I will burn it, I will smother it, I will—” He doesn’t know how he can do any of this, but that’s not going to stop him. “You’re not broken. You’re not filthy. You’re—” He bows his head and sinks to the floor with Martin, takes his shoulders roughly. “You are my sanity,” he whispers. “I’ve pushed you away and pushed you away because I wanted to keep you _safe_ , and all that’s happened is that _it_ knew and you did not.”

            “What?” Martin asks, stupidly.

            “Please,” Jon says, bowing his head in front of Martin. “Let me clean you off. Let me—” He’s never seemed to desire sex the way other people do, but he _wants_ it now, in a way that has nothing to do with sexuality, the urge to mark Martin, to claim him, to brand him as _Jon’s_ crawls up into his skin, leaving him half-horrified with himself. After what Martin’s just been through—

            Martin turns wide eyes on him. “You’d—you’d still—” he stammers. “You— _ever_ —”

            “For so long,” Jon breathes. “For so long, Martin.”

            “ _Please_ ,” Martin begs. “Clean me off, make me—yours again. Some way. Any way. Anything you want.”

            Jon strips off his clothes right away, carefully helps Martin to his feet, takes him into the shower, and turns the water on, cold and cleansing. Martin moans a little as Jon starts to wash him, scrub every inch of his body with his own hands. The water turns dark brown, then red, then, finally, clear. Jon kneels in front of Martin, touching him gently. “Do you want anything?” he asks.

            “Erase it,” Martin hisses. “Get it out of me, out of my head, please, Jon, ple—” Jon takes him in his mouth. Martin sucks his breath in harshly and nearly falls backward into the showerhead. The loud hissing noise of the shower sounds like a benediction. Jon tries to steady Martin as he sucks him off, tries to steady him and not gag and make it _good_ , to listen to anything, any minute sound or noise or word that falls from Martin’s lips.

            Martin comes very quickly, spilling into Jon’s mouth, and Jon swallows all of it, although it burns his lips and throat. He shudders slightly, but whatever power remains is muted here in the bowels of the Archives. Martin sags against the back of the shower, but he moves forward and kisses Jon, tangling his hands in his hair. “Fuck me,” he whispers. “Jon, please. _Please_ fuck me. Get it _out_.”

            Jon bends him over the sink and does. It’s fast and messy and brutal, but Martin moans and squirms beneath him and keeps begging and begging until Jon comes as well, the orgasm ripped out of him harsh and almost painful. Martin sighs and slumps forward. “Thank you,” he says, and Jon laughs, bitter and painful.

            “Don’t,” he says, sliding to the floor and pulling Martin close to him. “I can’t possibly make up for what happened to you.”

            Martin sags against him. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says.

            “Well, it certainly wasn’t yours.” Jon rubs his hand across his face. “I will find every last one of those _things_ and I will _erase_ them,” he tells Martin, and Martin smiles at him exhaustedly.

            “Thank you,” he says again.

            “For _what_ ,” Jon bursts out.

            “For taking me back,” Martin whispers, and buries his head in Jon’s naked shoulder. Jon doesn’t bother to correct him this time. He just holds him and stares up at the naked light above them and waits. He’s never letting Martin go again.           

 


End file.
